Love Me Crazy (11 page)

I drop her sketch pad beside her, stand and circle around. “It’s great. I, um . . .”

I shake my head. Drag my hand through my hair. How the fuck did she do that? I feel dirty. Like it’s me crawling over that house, me looking in the windows and marring its white brick with all this–I claw at my chest—shit.

I break into a jog.

“Quinn,” she calls.

I slow my pace, hating I let something like a drawing affect me. I could’ve told her it was great; pretend like I do with my sisters. I drag my hand through my hair, then rub my knuckles back and forth against my chin. Harder. Harder.

Cassidy grabs my hand and pulls me to a stop. I can’t look at her. I grit my teeth, grind them against each other, waiting for her to just . . . leave.

“I’m sorry.”

Her words catch me off guard and I spin toward her, about to snap, but her eyes convey how sorry she feels, like she knows what her drawing did to me. “For what?”

She rips the sketch out of her spiral pad and holds it out. Her gaze locks on mine.

As much as I hate the shit clashing inside me, I can’t hate her. I’d rather drag her to me, press her against me, hold her for hours. I’d let this girl draw every inch of me on that fucking house if it would take
her
sorrow away.

I
force a smile and take the drawing. “You know you’re dealing with a great artist when something like this”—I turn the sketch around to show her— “brings your past crashing down around you.”

Her teeth bury in her bottom lip. Her grass-green eyes flutter crazily, keeping her gaze from me.

“Cass—”

Her lips still my words. Warm, velvet lips against mine, mixing her sweet strawberry breath with salty sweat from my run. I lean into her, ready to explore the depths of Cassidy. I reach for her and she flattens her palms against my chest, heat on heat, fire on fire, until she pulls away.

She presses the back of her trembling hand against her mouth, hiding her lips. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.” Her face, a beautiful shade of cherry, says the opposite. I’m glad she kissed me. We should do it again. Real soon.

“I’m not complaining.”

She shrugs. “But it will mislead you. I—we can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry. Just pretend that never happened.”

I study her eyes, looking for an earthquake of a chance she’s kidding. Perseverance rims her irises. Determination narrows her pupils.

“Good-bye, Quinn.” She heads back to her blanket.

“Wait,” I call, but I have no clue what to say to change her mind. “Umm, may I keep this?” I hold out her sketch.

She nods.

“And can we at least have a friendly dinner?”

She
shakes her head no. Her cheek hollows like she’s nibbling it on the inside.

“You wouldn’t have kissed me if there wasn’t something happening between us.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t again.” Her freckled chest turns pink.

I step back, ready to have the last word, which won’t be good-bye. “I’m irresistible,” I tease.

“Yes, you are, but it isn’t you I’m trying to resist.”

With that, she leaves me speechless. Last words stolen by her pure honesty. Ego wounded and my damn pride lying mutilated somewhere beneath the broken pecans.

Chapter
8

Cassidy

Spreadsheets cover my bed. I fall back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling. How is it I can solve Harvard’s math problem of the week in ten seconds but can’t find solutions for Ellie’s growing list of changes? She’s not one of those evil, tantrum-throwing bridezillas—thank God— but a little commitment on her part would be nice. Deadlines exist for a reason. I swear they do, but not for a Covington. Every time I say a deadline has passed and she can’t make a change, she calls her mom and gets me a name and number. I swear Mrs. Covington has her own underground wedding factory run by little minion robots for no reason other than to give Ellie exactly the wedding she wants.

After
a quick shower to wash away the pecan dust stuck to my skin, I finish the food cards for the taste test scheduled for this afternoon, then change into Covington-approved attire and meet Ellie and Dean on the back porch. We wander through the gardens and discuss the shower she’ll have in the gazebo. It’s the biggest gazebo I’ve ever seen, more like an outside venue, screened in and wired for a sound system and even equipped with a built-in bar.

As we’re standing in the middle of it, I spin, picturing starlit nights, hanging lights, crickets and frogs serenading guests as they waltz around the dance floor. How many first kisses and secret rendezvous has this gazebo seen?

A vision of meeting Quinn, falling in his arms, and his lips pressing against mine appears. I scratch through it, erasing the vision, and drag Ellie out of the gazebo.

“Show me where in the grove you want to say your vows. The exact spot.” Mrs. Covington seems to think I can work magic on the impossible. Best I see Ellie’s vision first.

Dean pats her arm. “That’s easy,” he says.

I grin as the two lead the way. Dean’s easygoing, eager to please Ellie and would step right off the edge of a flat world to do so, but that makes it damn near impossible for her to make up her mind. His accommodating her every whim breeds indecision, something we don’t have time for.

Standing on the incline overlooking the pecan grove, I do everything I can to keep from making a WTF-are-you-crazy face. Especially after the way Quinn and I could hardly stand. I suppose the hulls could be raked up.

“Are you sure you want to say your vows there?” I point between the rows of trees. From afar, they aren’t so bad, but up close, the pecan shells aren’t as crisp green as they could be and the muted color partnered with one-to-many scarred branches, gives off a less-than appealing air.
The
large oaks with their sweeping branches are more pleasant and would better suit her wish for a Lowcountry wedding. “Might be a safety hazard,” I add. Quinn and I could hardly stand, but it could’ve been because we were already unsteady, due to something other than old slippery shells. “What about the front drive? The oaks are gorgeous.”

“Dean proposed to me there.” She points out a tree with a bright blue satin bow tied around the trunk. “There were stars and crickets.” She closes her eyes. “And the entire place smelled like flowers, much like it does now.”

I close my eyes and sniff, trying to ignore the wet shells’ unique earth scent that, to me, smells like wood rot and decay. Blocking my sight lets my olfactory senses take over. It’s much like yesterday when I painted from the edge overlooking the lower fields. Magnolias with their heady full blooms releasing pollen-coated sugar, gardenias and their heavy addictive sweetness, where one sniff is never enough, and jasmine, simple, elegant, and relaxing.

“Alright, but if you want me to sketch up a few ideas I had for the oaks, I can.”

“Would you!” She smiles. “You have the best ideas.”

“No problem.” I check the time. Crap. “We’re supposed to meet the caterer in less than half an hour.” I bolt up the hill.

“Hold up.”

“Your mom will have my head on a stake if I’m not there to greet and arrange everything,” I say as I walk backward away from them.

She catches up and grabs my hand. “You can’t start without me and Dean. Besides, ladies never rush.”

A lady who wants a paycheck does.

I
right my skirt and tuck in my blouse. Before entering the dining room, I wipe the clay dust from my heels. Hoping I’m not dripping sweat and my makeup isn’t smeared.

Mrs. Covington has her hands propped against the table. She leans over an assortment of platters. Inspecting, no doubt. She rolls her eyes up to peer over her glasses. “Common courtesy is to let everyone know you’re too busy to meet them at a specified time, Ms. Beck.”

I grab the tray of cards I’d labeled and set them next to the appropriate platter. “I apologize. I’d asked Ellie to show me where she wants to say her vows.”

She taps the table with her long nails, then tweaks each placard, either squaring it with the table or moving it over a centimeter. “Hideous.”

“What? I was top calligrapher in my class.” I’d penned each navy-blue card in gold and tucked them into vintage perfume bottles between sprigs of lavender, rosemary, and baby’s breath. I spent hours getting them perfect.

“Not the doodads.” She gestures at a card like it’s a pitiful attempt at beautiful. “The grove. If we get rain before the event, Eleanor’s vows will be the last thing on our guests’ minds.”

I stare in disbelief. Of all things to agree on, this one holds great sentiment for Ellie.

“What’s the holdup? The girls will be here in seconds.” She straightens her shoulders and walks toward the mantel where several black-and-white photos in tarnished frames sit.

Annabeth waltzes in and Mrs. Covington welcomes her with a rosy smile and a hug so genuine that if I didn’t know better, I’d guess her to be another daughter.

“
Gorgeous day, isn’t it?” She drapes her arm around Mrs. Covington’s waist as they walk to the table.

“You’re glowing like sunshine, darling. What has you smiling so?” Mrs. Covington gestures for her to take a chair beside her seat at the head of the table.

I move around the table carrying a stack of plates I’d prepared the night before. Using my awesome knowledge of fine dining, I’d preset the silverware and found gold chargers tucked deep in the china hutch. I center one plate on each charger and adjust the placemats, squaring the edges to the table.

“I just came off the boat. My parents took us out to see the Morris Island lighthouse. It was beautiful on the water.” Annabeth pulls a chair from the table. “Almost perfect.”

“We’ll work on that. Don’t you fret about anything.” Mrs. Covington realigns the silverware I’d set out before taking her seat. She smacks her lips together and smiles as the door pushes open and a chatterbox of girls and Dean walk through.

I step back from the table and take a deep breath, counting heads to make sure there’s enough seating. Quinn rolls in two seconds later, screwing up the numbers and my perfect table setting. I hadn’t counted on his presence. From the sudden silence and the quizzical glances thrown his way, I’m thinking no one else had either. I quickly turn to the china cabinet to grab another place setting. I set up his spot next to his mother.

Quinn squeezes my shoulders.

I jump at the contact and attempt to shrug him off. “Shall I call in the caterer?”

Quinn’s hands don’t lighten, instead, he buries his fingers into the muscles near my spine, coaxing them to relax. Ellie settles across from Kat, and Annabeth jumps into their conversation
about
serving chicken versus fish on a hot night and food poisoning. Dean greets Mrs. Covington with a brief hug and a kiss to the cheek.

“Yes, Ms. Beck, the caterer, please.” She claps her hands, breaking up the conversations.

I signal the kitchen crew and step back from the table to allow Mrs. Covington and Ellie to view their selections.

“Cassidy, join us. There’s plenty of room.” Quinn pulls out the chair I’d arranged for him and gestures for me to sit.

“I’m fine here.”

“Sit,” he says. “I’m sure Ellie would appreciate your input.”

“Oh, absolutely. Come on, join us.” She waves me over and I don’t dare look in Mrs. Covington’s direction.

Once I’m seated, Quinn crosses the room, grabs a drably upholstered wing chair and slides it between me and Mrs. Covington.

“Really,” I say. “I should help serve and take notes on Ellie’s choices.” I push back from the table.

“Sit, Cassidy,” he drawls. “As my guest.”

“And mine.” Ellie smiles.

I glance at Mrs. Covington who’s studying my every move.

“Don’t you think she should try everything, too? The more advice the better,” Ellie says to her mom.

“As you wish, Eleanor.” Mrs. Covington glances around the table. As her gaze flits from one Covington to the next, the girls fall in formation like robots.

Drop
of the hands to the lap. Straight backs. Chins high. Chairs tucked. Elbows pinned to their sides. Damn.

I fidget in my seat as memories of my mom’s ruler tapping my wrists, my elbows, and my chin come to mind. She might as well have stuffed a metal rod up my ass to keep my spine straight, because if I slouched, she’d whack my side with the ruler. I chew on my cheek and stare over the table, wishing like hell I was standing on the outside where I could be me and not the perfect prize of Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Beck.

I scoot to the edge of my seat and refuse to let my chin or my gaze fall into the red zone. Holding my breath, I keep my emotions in check. “Ellie, to your right you’ll find the poultry dish. Chicken served over rice with a tart citrus glaze. Haricots verts with almonds and rosemary potatoes. Directly in front of you is the salmon you’d requested; recipe rights exclusively granted for your wedding reception—salmon croquettes over kale with mint cream sauce drizzled over top.”

The girls
ohh
and
ahh
as I describe the other choices. I glance at Mrs. Covington who merely nods approval.

“Where’s the barbecue?” Quinn asks. “No pig pickin’s?”

“This isn’t one of your beach parties, Quinny. It’s a wedding.” Annabeth smiles. “But maybe we could throw you a welcome home party. Something small. Celebrate all the good news around here lately.”

Ellie and Dean nod in unison.

Kat rolls her eyes. “Let’s hold off and save a pig. Who knows if he’ll jet again.”

Quinn
peers at his sister. His teeth clamp tight, making his jaw line sharpen. “Just thought there’d be something less formal at the reception.” He straightens his silverware and puts his napkin across his lap. “But you’re right, Kat, no party’s necessary. Save the pig.”

Kat drops her gaze from his, almost like she wishes she’d kept her mouth shut, but the bitterness in her eyes doesn’t dull.

The caterer walks in wiping his hands down his apron front. He explains the dishes in more depth, down to the seasoning, which in all honesty, is boring and means the food is getting cold.